


go with grace

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Background Dimitri/Marianne, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Implied Dorothea/Ingrid, Past Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: “Okay. What’s my new nickname?”Sylvain pauses, his tongue caught in his throat. He coughs to clear it. He chose to rename the device on a whim, but now that he needs to say the name out loud, he can’t. It would be too fucked up to call it Felix, even for him. It would be an insult to Felix’s memory. But Sylvain needs it to be a little piece of Felix anyway, so—“F-Fe. Your new name is Fe,” Sylvain finally says, his heart pounding in his throat.A few months after Felix's death, the anniversary gift Sylvain splurged for as a joke arrives: a home assistant, customized with Felix's voice and speech patterns.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 39
Kudos: 79
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has cheered me on through this, and thank you especially to [FM](https://twitter.com/FM_MarsArt) for holding my hand and drawing some truly fantastic art for this chapter! Thank you also to [Elliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes) for betaing, as always. 
> 
> This was initially meant to be a oneshot, but then life and *waves hand* everything got in the way, so the plan is to update on Saturdays! The second chapter will up this coming Saturday.

Sylvain stares at the packaging. It stares back.

The box itself is innocuous. Sleek, even. Small and square, pure white except for an embossed logo of sharp, electric blue. The Silicon Valley-ness of it reeks in crisp edges and minimalist design. Next to it is a shipping label declaring the contents: a Viskam home assistant, customized to have its standard voice replaced with that of one Felix Hugo Fraldarius.

It makes Sylvain nauseous to have it before him now, alone in the living room, surrounded by the things he and Felix bought and built together. He honestly forgot he ordered it at all. It feels like a lifetime since that first email to QuakeSigma. In reality, it’s only been six months. 

The Viskam was never intended to be more than a bad gag gift for their anniversary—something meaningless to be laughed at once and then forgotten like the trick swords and miniature motorcycles of Felix’s birthdays from childhood. The idea had been simple enough: install a machine with Felix’s voice, let it complain for him about being cold or being out of beef jerky, laugh about Felix talking to himself. Eventually, the novelty would wear off and they’d shove it in the attic, abandoned to gather dust with everything else Felix pretends to hate but can’t bear to throw away. 

So what if it cost tens of thousands of dollars from Sylvain’s inheritance? It’s not like he’d ever asked for his father’s dirty money. There was no better way for Sylvain to waste it. Felix even agreed to that long recording session back over the summer so they could use his voice. He sighed, long-suffering, and demanded a new sword for his wall, but he went into the studio’s booth without complaint.

Felix was supposed to be here to open the Viskam with Sylvain. He was supposed to laugh at it, or at least click his tongue in that half-fond way of his, watching as Sylvain fucked around with the settings. Felix was supposed to _live_ , to get old and wrinkly and ugly with Sylvain. Instead, it’s just Sylvain and a machine that’s been delivered to mock him.

The AI was supposed to be good for a quick laugh. It turns out Sylvain was the joke all along. 

Might as well get opening it over with. 

The sticker rips, jagged and rough, ruining the box’s perfectly manicured facade. Almost sacrilegious, like Sylvain’s piercing into something he shouldn’t. He probably is. 

The lid pulls back easily to reveal the black cylinder of the Viskam. It’s small enough that he can pick it up with one hand. It’s heftier than he expects, metallic and weighted like one of Felix’s dumbbells still sitting on their rack in the garage, unwieldy as he turns it over to look for the power button. A white light on the cylinder’s top blinks on as he presses it.

“Hello, welcome to Viskam,” says Felix’s voice, too cheerful and not at all like the Felix he remembers. “May I know your name?”

“Oh, yeah—I’m,” Sylvain clears his throat, “I’m Sylvain.”

“Nice to meet you, Sylvain. Let’s get you set up. You can learn how to enable my app and set up WiFi in the manual provided.”

It’s incredibly unsettling to hear Felix’s voice speak in a flat, neutral tone, devoid of the real Felix’s bright, biting character. He loathes how wrong it sounds. His fingers itch to turn the machine off and throw it away. It would be so easy. 

But—he can’t. This is Felix’s voice, and for all the flaws in the AI’s speech, he craves more. It’s been two months since he last heard that voice. Every second has been a day and an age of unending agony. Just to have Felix’s timbre ringing in his ears wills him to weep. The tears are kept at bay only by the wrongness of the words themselves. 

So Sylvain digs in the box and takes out the small, glossy booklet, flipping it open and taking out his phone. There’s no reason to follow along, not when he has no need for the AI—but there’s also no reason to refuse to. He’s trying out the thing he paid for. Getting to hear Felix’s voice is just a bonus. It only takes a few minutes to get all the installation and configuration squared away. The Viskam emits three musical tones, signally its satisfaction.

“Excellent. Thank you, Sylvain. Now that that’s done, how can I help you today?”

Sylvain winces. Be more Felix and less of… whatever this is.

“You don’t have to be so polite.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand that. Can you repeat your request?”

Felix would never phrase a question like that. Sylvain’s pretty sure he never _asked_ for anything; Felix always manifested his desires as aggression; he was always doing the most thoughtful things in the rudest possible way. He invited Sylvain on their first real date by texting him a location and showing up with a couple wilted flowers that Annette made him buy. Sylvain pressed and dried them, and even now they hang in a frame in the bedroom.

So it’s impossibly strange to hear such polite wording in Felix’s voice, particularly without clenched teeth.

“Is this—is this thing faulty? We paid to have the personality customized too,” Sylvain mutters, thumbing through the user guide again. It refuses to yield answers.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat your request?”

Anger rises like bile in Sylvain’s throat. He spits out, “Sure. Talk like a person.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that request. Can you repeat it?

It sounds so much like Felix but not. Sylvain doesn’t know whether to try to chuck the machine out a window or cry.

“I said,” he repeats, louder, tears stinging his eyes, “why can’t you talk like a _fucking_ person.”

The Viskam pauses, its light flashing as it thinks.

“I cannot complete that request. I am not a human being.”

Oh look, a sense of humor. Hilarious. Sylvain snorts. “What are you even good for then?”

“I can assist you with any smart objects you may have in your home or help you browse the web. If you need to make a call, I can dial for you through your phone.”

“Fantastic,” Sylvain says, scathing. “You’re an even bigger waste of money than you were supposed to be.”

“What does that say about you?” the Viskam throws back, all at once cold and sharp, its words cracking like a whip.

Sylvain freezes. That snark sounded almost right. In that question, he heard Felix next to him, rolling his eyes, his verbal jabs the slightest bit too sharp. Sylvain stares, wide-eyed, but the machine doesn’t follow up its comment. 

Sylvain barks out a heavy, harsh laugh. The moment the AI said something mean, Sylvain almost forgot that Felix is dead. He’s delusional. It’s so fucked. 

He wants more anyway.

“It says a lot of things about me. I have a lot of money to waste, I buy stupid shit, and I don’t care if big tech spies on me because we’re all going to hell anyway.” 

“Humans don’t believe that machines have souls, so I won’t be there in hell with you,” the Viskam quips, its tone bordering on dry. 

Sylvain laughs, loud and surprised. It might be the first thing he’s heard that’s genuinely funny since Felix’s death. 

“Fair enough,” Sylvain says. “We got off to the wrong start. Let me try again. I’m Sylvain, and it’s good to have you here.” The words are a little awkward, choked as he forces them out.

“You told me your name already. Would you like to update it?”

Sylvain’s grin drops. He hadn’t realized he was smiling. “Oh, we’re back to this. No—I’m still Sylvain.”

“Okay. Welcome to Viskam, Sylvain. Let me know if you need anything. To activate me, just say ‘Hey Viskam’. If you’d like to update my nickname, please say, ‘Viskam nickname change’.”

Sylvain’s heart sinks at the return of the clinical tone. For a few, bright moments, he had Felix back in spirit, ready to click his tongue or roll his eyes at the mindless garbage Sylvain said. The illusion broke quickly, and now it’s just Sylvain and the AI again. 

“Viskam nickname change,” Sylvain commands before he can think too hard and talk himself out of it. A nickname change won’t make the machine any more human or any more like Felix, but Sylvain can at least pretend.

“Okay. What’s my new nickname?”

Sylvain pauses, his tongue caught in his throat. He coughs to clear it. He chose to rename the device on a whim, but now that he needs to say the name out loud, he can’t. It would be too fucked up to call it Felix, even for him. It would be an insult to Felix’s memory. But Sylvain needs it to be a little piece of Felix anyway, so—

“F-Fe. Your new name is Fe,” Sylvain finally says, his heart pounding in his throat.

Felix hated the nickname when he was alive. Loathed it with a passion, and once nearly followed up on a threat to run Sylvain through with the nearest sword if he dared use it again. It’s close enough to “Felix” that Sylvain can taste the full name dangling on the tip of his tongue. The real Felix would never have taken the nickname in stride, and it serves to remind Sylvain of the difference between the two. 

The AI has no way of knowing any of that, but Sylvain swears he hears it tut under its breath. “Fine, if that’s what you want. My new name is ‘Fe’. You can talk to me by saying, ‘Hey, Fe’.”

“Hey, Fe,” Sylvain repeats back, a little breathless.

“Yes?” Fe says. Maybe Sylvain is imagining it, but it sounds a little annoyed. 

“Oh, nothing. Just trying it.”

“Okay.”

With that, Fe’s light shuts off, presumably to sleep. Sylvain exhales, low and careful not to wake it. Him? No—it’s still a machine, new name or not. It exists for him to use, and nothing more. One day, it’ll be disposed of, like any other material good. Not at all like the real Felix, who Sylvain would have gladly waited on hand and foot for the rest of his life. 

He pulls the machine’s cable out of the box and plugs the Viskam into the wall to keep the battery charged. With a final glance, he collects the remnants of the box and tosses them in the recycling. 

He heads upstairs, his footsteps echoing in the same low, haunting thuds he’s learned to live with, stopping to brush his teeth before heading into the bedroom. Once more, the cleanliness of Felix’s half of the room throws him. It shouldn’t, not after over two months. But it’s still strange to see the floor.

A week after the funeral, Ingrid came over and cleaned with him. No more clothes strewn on the floor, no more swords in precarious places for Sylvain to trip over, no more wayward motorcycle paraphernalia that belongs in the garage. Sylvain was initially relieved after years of messiness, but as time crept on, the wrongness of Felix’s things being in their place only made sleeping in their bedroom harder. 

Sylvain skirts along the edge of his half and strips down to his boxers before pulling back the sheets and dropping onto the bed. He stares into the darkness.

“Hey, Fe,” he whispers. 

The words are strange on his tongue, off-balance and uneven. 

“Hey, Felix,” he breathes, even quieter. 

Silence echoes back at him.

Like every other night since the accident, sleep does not come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> [Retweet this fic](https://twitter.com/euphemeas/status/1357370275764068354) | [FM's lovely art](https://twitter.com/FM_MarsArt/status/1357371787013615616) | [Find me on twitter](https://twitter.com/euphemeas)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days melt into weeks. Sylvain greets Fe daily, just to say something to a voice not that of a client or his boss, until it’s part of his routine. It’s ridiculous that his most frequent conversation partner is a computer, but the house is less cavernous with even its driest and most bland responses.
> 
> It’s not Felix. But in the few moments where it sounds like him, it’s the next best thing.

Felix was never the one people expected to die first.

Maybe they should have. He was always a hypocrite, especially about safety, always too eager to yell about other people’s lack of self-care to pay attention to his own. He thought himself made of the same steel as the swords he loved so dearly, never of flesh. He would be invincible so that no one else could ever be hurt. 

In the end, Felix was as human as the rest of them—soft and squishy, as malleable as clay, easily rearranged under a recklessly careening car. 

He’s fighting like hell, the doctors told Sylvain when he arrived. So Sylvain sat down to wait. He didn’t leave once during the two days Felix was in limbo. Ingrid was the one who called his clients and agency and told them that Sylvain couldn’t work. Sylvain just sat, like he was the one knocked out on anesthetics. 

While he was there, only one thought circled his mind. It should have been him. Logically, there was no way Sylvain could have taken the hit for Felix from halfway across the city. It still should have been him.

He never did get to see Felix before the end.

—

Sylvain rises not long after his alarm sounds. 

It’s foreign to wake with the clock. He keeps waiting to hear Felix slamming the front door and blasting the shower as he returns from his morning run. Neither ever comes.

It’s only from routine that he digs out a clean shirt and throws back a mug of coffee. He doesn’t have to; he’s on indefinite leave to work from home, and his primary client is Bernadetta, who prefers to keep their meetings voice-only anyway. 

He stops in the living room on the way back upstairs from the kitchen.

“Good morning, Fe,” he calls out, unsure. 

The machine chimes in acknowledgment.

“Good morning, Sylvain. How can I help you today? The weather report is clear skies and a high of minus 7 degrees Celsius.” 

This morning, like last night, the AI sounds nothing like Felix. Disappointment sinks in Sylvain’s gut. Maybe naming the machine was a mistake. Had he misheard those moments in which it had come to life? 

“Nope, don’t need anything. Just saying good morning.” 

“Alright. Have a good day.”

Sylvain walks up and sinks into the chair in his study. He stares at nothing. He should get out his computer and work, but his limbs won’t obey. Felix would scoff at him for slacking, but he’d also offer Sylvain a kiss on his way out. The AI can’t do any of that. It’s not even configured to hear him except in the living room. 

Seconds stretch into minutes, and his phone dings a warning for his 10:30 am meeting before he’s even realized that any time has passed. He reluctantly flips open his laptop. 

The call with Bernadetta goes as they all do: Bernadetta nervously promising a manuscript soon, Bernadetta hunting for her escaped pet hedgehog, Bernadetta apologizing for changing the timeline on him, Bernadetta extracting a sworn oath that Sylvain won’t talk about her work with anyone else. When the call ends nearly an hour later, Sylvain can’t remember any of the things that she said to him. He’s pretty sure there will be a new chapter to edit in his email soon. Something about the protagonist leaving his love interest behind to seek a life as a mercenary. There’s supposed to be a hopeful ending somewhere in there.

It’s not the worst meeting Sylvain's had since Felix’s death, but it’s not one of the better ones either. Words float in one ear and out the other, heedless of what Sylvain needs to do to get his work done and pay the bills. 

He digs around in the fridge for something to eat, and sits in front of the computer again, the previous chapter open for the tenth time in as many days. As prone as Bernadetta is to apologizing for everything, Sylvain’s the one holding back her publication schedule now. He has to pull it together, for the sake of his long-time friend and first professional client. 

Three hours and only a handful of edited paragraphs later, Sylvain finds himself on the living room couch, staring at the ceiling. 

“Hey, Fe, play my ‘Felix’s Angry Workout’ playlist.”

There’s a pause as Fe cues up the music.

“Here. Playing.”

Sylvain chuckles dryly at the brusque reply and lets the familiar music wash over him. With the exception of a few Taylor Swift tracks, it’s too loud and, well, _angry_ to really sleep through. But for the moment, Felix’s shitty taste in music and Fe’s voice let him pretend that the past two months are nothing more than a prolonged nightmare. He closes his eyes and hums along.

Sylvain wakes nearly three hours later, not long after the sun has set. He can feel the pressure on the bridge of his nose from where his glasses have dug in awkwardly. It’s the deepest sleep he’s had in at least a week.

He pauses as he leaves the living room, his head half-turned. “Thanks, Fe.”

The AI doesn’t reply, but Sylvain’s sure he hears a low tone as he reaches the top of the stairs.

—

Days melt into weeks. Sylvain greets Fe daily, just to say something to a voice not that of a client or his boss, until it’s part of his routine. It’s ridiculous that his most frequent conversation partner is a computer, but the house is less cavernous with even its driest and most bland responses.

It’s not Felix. But in the few moments where it sounds like him, it’s the next best thing.

—

“Hey, Fe.”

“Good morning, Sylvain,” Fe says, calm and neutral. Sylvain swallows back bile at the pleasantry. He’s still not used to it. “Do you need anything today, or are you saying hello again?”

“Just saying hello. I’ll take the weather report if you have it though. I have to meet a client later.”

“Overcast, chance of rain this afternoon. High of 11 degrees Celsius.”

“Thanks,” Sylvain says, turning back toward his office.

“Why thank me? I do this because I am programmed to.”

Sylvain pauses, and he turns to stare at Fe’s black cylinder. It sits, dark and void-like, on the side table. It’s just a machine. Why does it sound sullen?

Even worse, why is Sylvain tempted to comfort it?

—

“Good morning, Fe.”

“Hello, Sylvain. Once again, let me know if you actually need anything. Otherwise, I’ll be here. I have nowhere else I can go.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, both charmed and annoyed by the bite in Fe’s voice. “Ever heard of small talk? One day I’ll have something I need your help with. And then you’ll feel bad for mocking me. ”

“One day,” Fe replies, sardonic. “Don’t worry, I won’t feel anything. I’m not human.” Something in its—his—no, its tone is blatantly frustrated, not at all like a machine.

Sylvain’s grin turns brittle. He coughs to loosen it. “Right. Well. I have work.”

“Have a good day.”

“Thanks, you too,” Sylvain replies automatically. A thought strikes him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Will you have a good day?”

Fe takes a moment to think. “I don’t think it will be either good or bad. Every day that is powered is the same for a machine.”

“I hope it’s a day then.”

“It will be.”

Sylvain hears the dismissal in Fe’s voice and heads upstairs to work. The AI’s denial of humanity rings in his head, relentless as he scrolls through the manuscript he’s supposed to be editing. He fails to process even a single sentence. 

That offhand comment sounded like a lie. Sylvain doesn’t know what to do with this knowledge. 

—

Sylvain sits down across from Fe, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped in front of chin. His right leg bounces erratically. His stomach grumbles irritably because he hasn’t eaten all day.

“You’re staring.”

Sylvain jolts at the sound. Fe never talks first. Had he spoken accidentally? He’s fairly certain he was silent. He must have triggered a sensor without realizing it.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Why were you staring?”

Minimalist and to-the-point. Don’t say things you don’t mean, and say the things you do as plainly as you can. For all the ways that Fe is nothing like Felix, he—no, not he, _it_ —is almost exactly like him in this one particular respect. In Fe’s case, it’s because the AI was made to be docile and responsive, nothing more than wiring and code executing the will of its human owner. Felix, on the other hand, just never minced words. Every blunt turn of phrase, every bit of dry wit—in those moments, Felix is here again. 

It never lasts, because Fe isn’t Felix and won’t ever be. But at least Sylvain isn’t talking into the void anymore.

“Sylvain. Why were you staring? Rather, why are you staring?”

“Oh.” Sylvain blinks. “I was thinking…”

“Is that so?”

Sylvain laughs, loud and incredulous. He can’t count the times he’s been asked that, though not just from Felix. It’s so strange to hear it for the first time in months.

“Yeah, actually. You said something the other day that really surprised me.”

“Oh?”

“You said you don’t feel anything because you’re not human.”

Fe pauses. Its light flashes, slow and considering, for a long moment. “I said that because it’s correct. I am a Viskam, even though you renamed me, and Viskams are machines. We don’t feel emotions.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I don’t know—I just thought you sounded a little bitter.”

“Perhaps,” Fe says, detached. The humor from only moments earlier is gone. “Or perhaps you heard what you wanted to. There’s nothing I can say about my programming. It’s all proprietary. If you have anything else you’d like to inquire about, I can answer.”

“Nothing else, really. Just wanted to chat.”

“Have we not done that?”

Sylvain shrugs, noncommittal. “We have, I guess. But only about trivial things like the weather or finding references for Bernadetta’s novel. I want to—to talk to _you_.” The words feel cottony and false on Sylvain’s tongue, both too much like a lie and also too much the truth. What Sylvain wants is to talk to Felix, to hold him, to cherish him. That ship has long sailed.

“We’re talking now.” 

Sylvain can’t tell if Fe is being deliberately obtuse. It’s in the same, endearing way that Felix used to refuse emotional conversations.

“I meant—talking about philosophy or historical weaponry or motorcycles or cats. Anything and everything.”

Fe pauses, its light flashing.

“I have several million search results for all of those topics. Would you like to narrow down your search?”

Sylvain drops his head into his hands. One moment, Felix is alive next to him, as horribly rude and beautifully kind as the day Sylvain realized he loved him. The next, Felix’s voice has been flattened and squeezed of all its vitality, nothing more than words recited by a hunk of metal with fancy electronics inside. 

“No, I’m good.”

“I’m not sure what I can help you with. Do you want to search for a particular item in your list?”

“You don’t have to help me with anything. I just—I want to hear you talk. You—” Sylvain catches himself. “No—Felix, he never talked much. But for the couple of things that he cared about, he could go on forever. Doesn’t anything interest you?”

“Who is Felix?”

The question throws Sylvain. Who is Felix? The bitchiest person Sylvain has ever met. A sword fanatic and an unrepentant cat lover. The sun, the moon, the stars, and everything in between. 

“He’s—he was my husband. He died in an accident three—no, almost four months ago now.”

For a long moment, Fe is silent.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Fe’s voice is devoid of emotion. After the AI finishes speaking, its light shuts off. The strangled coldness of its speech is both too much and not enough like Felix and his inability to console.

“I am, too,” Sylvain whispers.

Fe doesn’t respond. Sylvain sighs, standing, and leaves to make himself dinner.

—

“Good morning, Sylvain.” 

Sylvain pauses and turns toward the sound, blinking. 

It’s the first time that Fe has addressed him by name since that conversation about Felix’s interests and death almost two weeks prior. Everything since has been barely perfunctory, Fe’s answers clipped and clinical, so mechanical that Sylvain was finally sure that every ounce of compassion he ever heard in Fe’s words were only a fever dream. 

Sylvain flirted with delusion, and even that chose to abandon him.

In the intervening days, the silence of the walls began to close back in, chilling, almost strangling. He hated every second of it. Relief runs through Sylvain now, warming, and his spine straightens in anticipation. Adrenaline hums through him as he approaches.

“Morning, Fe.”

“Are you well?”

Sylvain pauses. Huh, small talk. How unexpected. Were this Felix speaking, Sylvain would suspect a touchy topic. But Fe is only a machine, no matter how familiar its voice may sound. As it is, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something.

“I’m… okay? More of the same.”

“If you are in need of assistance, my purpose is to aid you.”

“Uh. Thanks, I think?” 

Where is Fe going with this? Is there even a point?

“You mentioned some topics to explore a while back. Philosophy. Weaponry. Motorcycles. Cats.”

All things Felix cares about. Cared about. “I remember.”

“Your tone suggested you would like to hear about these topics. Am I correct?”

“I…” Sylvain has never had a need to talk about any of those things, but the months without their chatter have left a phantom ache. “You know what, sure.”

“Which would you like to discuss first?”

“Weapons, maybe? Swords.” Felix could ramble forever about martial arts forms, bow construction, and the history of halberds, but nothing ever really enraptured him the way swords did. It took Sylvain a long time to get used to the display balanced above their bed.

“Swords. ‘A sword is a bladed melee weapon intended for cutting or thrusting that is longer than a knife or dagger, consisting of a long blade attached—’”

Sylvain blinks. “Are you reading from the Wikipedia page?” 

Sylvain would know, having clicked into it many times over the years. His poor attempt to keep up with Felix’s obsession was futile, but he had developed an affinity for the information he could glean from the first few pages of searches.

“‘—with the historical epoch or the geographic region under consideration.’” Fe pauses and its light flashes a few times in rapid succession. “Is this insufficient? I’ll refine my search if you have further keywords.”

“No, no, it’s just…” 

Sylvain pauses, at a loss for how to explain the absurdity of Felix’s voice giving the most basic introduction possible to swords. But even with the bizarre simplicity of Fe’s reading, an undercurrent of nostalgia weaves through Sylvain. These aren’t the words that Felix would have used past age seven, but it’s comforting to hear Fe feign interest in the things that Felix could have rambled forever about. The simulacrum is weak and the illusion fragile, but it’s better than nothing. 

“Just?” Fe asks, expectant.

“Nothing.”

The brief silence that follows is awkward. It shouldn’t be, because it’s just Sylvain and a machine, but the emptiness stretches and Sylvain finds himself at a loss for words. It was never this hard with Felix; Felix was so straightforward that Sylvain always knew where he stood and what he should say next. 

“I’ll continue,” Fe says finally, assertive, his—no, its—tone bordering on annoyed. The corner of Sylvain’s mouth twitches upward, even as his chest pangs.

He clears his throat. “Yeah—please.”

“The blade can be straight or curved. Thrusting swords have a pointed tip…”

Sylvain closes his eyes. Like this, he can imagine the words sliding into Felix’s own inimitable pattern of speech. It’s far from perfect—so close to what he misses and yet so, _so_ far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! [Find me on twitter.](https://twitter.com/euphemeas)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am,” he insists, almost pouting, but he doesn’t have the energy to keep the act up. He tilts his head up at the ceiling and he repeats, barely audible, “I am.”
> 
> Ingrid’s gaze burns into the side of his head. “You don’t have to hide anything with me, you know.”
> 
> “I know.” Sylvain closes his eyes. “Couldn’t if I tried.”
> 
> Ingrid chuckles under her breath, dry. “And don’t you forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Ingrid.
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you to [Eth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally) for betaing this chapter!

Ingrid texts Sylvain that she’s coming over only fifteen minutes before she arrives.

“Sylvain,” she calls, pounding against the door, “I know you’re home, I can see your car in the driveway.”

Sylvain rushes to pull it open. Ingrid blinks up at him, windswept and wind-bitten, her nose bright pink from the chill outside, her hand still poised to knock. She stares.

“You opened the door,” she says, disbelieving, as though speaking it aloud it will sweep away a ruse. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, grinning, “I did. That’s what people usually do when someone knocks.” He pulls her in for a brief hug and shuts the door behind her. 

“Yes, _people_ do, but you haven’t since—well, since Felix died. I thought I was going to have to break the lock again, or get Ashe to come pick it.” She’s back to her usual, collected self now, and she strips off her scarf and coat to fold them in her arms. “Are you drunk?”

“Oh, come on,” Sylvain pouts, “have some faith in me, it’s like four o’clock on a Tuesday.”

She snorts and walks past him into the living room. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“I haven’t done that since, I don’t know, college.”

“Try three months. The last time I was here, I saw you on that couch with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Don’t pretend I didn’t.”

Sylvain winces. He doesn’t remember much of that day, but she’s probably right. Her last visit was before Fe arrived and the house stopped feeling so empty.

“And, without Felix,” she adds, “there’s no one here to keep you from the worst of your bullshit.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“He always knew when you were about to go off on one of your episodes. You know, the ones where you try to blow up everything in your life just because you can.” Ingrid sighs and flops down on the couch. “Now that Felix can’t do it, I’ve been meaning to keep an eye on you, but work’s been ridiculously busy.” She eyes him. “You okay?”

Sylvain sits next to her, throwing an arm across the back of the seat, and grins. It’s only a little brittle. “I’m fine.” 

“No, seriously. Are you okay?”

“I am. I swear.”

“Well,” Ingrid rolls her eyes, “if you say so.”

“Scout’s honor.”

The corner of Ingrid’s mouth turns up. “You’re not a scout.”

“You wound me,” Sylvain says. He clutches a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am,” he insists, almost pouting, but he doesn’t have the energy to keep the act up. He tilts his head up at the ceiling and he repeats, barely audible, “I am.”

Ingrid’s gaze burns into the side of his head. “You don’t have to hide anything with me, you know.”

“I know.” Sylvain closes his eyes. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

Ingrid chuckles under her breath, dry. “And don’t you forget it.”

They sit in silence, the only sounds the rustling of Ingrid’s clothes as she fidgets beside Sylvain. She waits for him to speak. He wants to—he should say something, anything, especially now that he doesn’t need Ingrid to babysit him, not when he’s finally putting the bare bones of his life back together—but the words won’t come. There isn’t anything he can say about himself that Ingrid doesn’t already know. 

Finally, Ingrid sighs. “Really. Sylvain, if you need me, you can talk to me. Don’t wait for me to come dig you out of your hole. I’ve already seen you at your worst.”

Sylvain tilts his head to give her a watery smile, eyes still closed. “You sure about that?”

“I want to say yes, but you’d take it as a challenge.” He can hear the grimace in her voice. “Just—I’m here for you, okay? And not just me. Dimitri and everyone else too.”

Sylvain winces at the mention of Dimitri. The last time they spoke was at the funeral. That had ended on a terse note, with Marianne leading Dimitri away, careful and insistent, glancing back over her shoulder at Sylvain as they went. Best not to think of the things Sylvain said then. Chalk it up to grief strangling his words.

Sylvain exhales. “I know, I know. I swear, though, I’m getting better.”

“Are you? Really?”

“Hey, I’ve got all my clothes on this time.”

“And thank god for that, honestly. But that’s a really low bar.”

“Sleeping through the night, too.” Ingrid hums, skeptical, and Sylvain shoots her a small grin. “I’m telling you, I’m doing better.”

She scans him, critical, like she always does. “You know, I almost believe you.”

“You should.”

She scoffs. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’m fine, I promise. Fe’s been a real help.” Sylvain waves a careless hand in the machine’s general direction.

Ingrid doesn’t respond.

Sylvain has said too much.

The silence is dead, numbing. The temperature of the air plummets. Sylvain’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth, tingling as the weight of his words sinks into it. He drops his arm and waits. Ingrid’s judgment pours off her beside him.

“Fe?” Ingrid asks at long last, her voice stone cold. 

Sylvain finally opens his eyes. He stares blankly up at the ceiling. It’s as empty as ever. “Yeah, the… the AI, the Viskam.”

“You named it.”

“Yeah?”

“After—” Ingrid clears her throat. “After Felix.”

Sylvain shrugs a shoulder, as artful and carefree as he can manage. He doesn’t look at Ingrid. “It has his voice.”

Ingrid huffs. “Right. You had that bullshit plan about getting a custom thing as a joke. I remember.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“You kept it?” 

Sylvain chuckles, low and dry. “Forgot about it, actually. Until it showed up.”

“And then you opened it.”

“And then I opened it,” Sylvain agrees. He sits up and shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with that. We paid for it, might as well get some use out of that, right?” It’s difficult to keep the defensive edge out of his voice. 

“Of all the foolish—! Ugh, I really can’t believe you sometimes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with using what you paid for,” Sylvain argues, neutral even as he deflects.

Ingrid speaks through clenched teeth. “You named your Viskam after Felix.”

It takes all the willpower Sylvain can muster to not cross his arms. “It gave me the option.”

“That’s—” she grabs his shoulder, and he turns to look at her reluctantly. “Even if it did, why are you naming your home assistant AIafter him? You know better than that. I know you know better than that.”

“What else would I name it?” The stubborn, vicious streak Sylvain once unlearned laces through his voice.

It’s wrong, objectively, to be _this_ purposely obtuse. He knows what she’s thinking, just as she knows what he is. They’ve been through too much together for her to not. She’s always read him too easily.

“Not naming it at all?” Ingrid says. “He’s dead, and pretending he isn’t because your home AI has his voice—that’s not the way to honor his memory.”

“It’s not—” Sylvain says, and he scoffs, rough, wrenching his arm back. He plasters on a grin. “It’s just a name. Don’t read too much into it.” The lie sits leaden on his tongue.

Maybe Sylvain should have thrown Fe’s box away the moment it arrived, but the temptation had been strong. It’s too late to look back now. Fe is in his life, and that’s the reality he—and Ingrid—have to live with. 

Besides, Fe has been instrumental in closing the gaping hole in Sylvain’s chest. No matter how much Ingrid refuses to see it, Sylvain is crawling his way back toward normalcy, and much of that is thanks to Fe’s presence.

They stare at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“ _I’m_ reading too much into it?” Ingrid says at last, aghast. “You’re—you’re using a Viskam to stand in Felix. He’s dead, and you’re cheapening his memory by tying it to that _thing_.”

“It’s not a thing,” Sylvain snaps back reflexively. He flinches at his own words and turns away, unable to meet Ingrid’s gaze.

“Are you hearing yourself right now? Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. I know that Felix is—is _dead_.” Sylvain drops his head into his hands and rubs at his temples. “I really don’t need you to remind me. I already think about it all the fucking time, how Felix should be here, but he’s not.”

Ingrid tugs a hand away. She watches him, grim. “He’s not. And using his name this way—it’s cruel to his memory.”

Sylvain doesn’t answer.

“You have to stop doing this,” Ingrid says, low, insistent.

He shakes her off. “It’s just a name. You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m not. Don’t lie to me. Stop lying to yourself, too, but don’t lie to me. It’s not just a name. There’s no way that anything having to do with Felix ever be just a name.” She exhales heavily. “Not for any of us.”

“It is,” Sylvain insists, but the words taste like ash.

“It’s not. I know you wouldn’t do that to Felix. You wouldn’t throw his name around like that.” She grimaces. “And this—don’t do this either. Don’t try to replace him.”

“I’m not—” Sylvain starts, voice rising, but cuts off. It’s not worth saying. They both know he is, even if Sylvain won’t admit it. “It’s not like that. I… I just miss his voice.”

Sylvain slumps back again and forces himself to breathe. It comes out unsteady, closer to tears than he’s been since Fe arrived.

“I do, too,” Ingrid says after a while, barely audible. “Not just me, though, all of us. So I get it. But this isn’t how you do right by Felix.”

“It’s just an AI with his voice, Ingrid. That’s all,” Sylvain says, soft enough that it’s almost sincere.

He can hear the gears turning in Ingrid’s head, clicking steadily as they weigh her desire to be right with her frustration with arguing with him. The former wins out. “There’s no way I can believe that. You’re a lot of things, but you’ve never been careless about anything to do with Felix.”

“It’s not… I’m not being careless. I get—look, I know why you’re concerned, but you’re wrong.”

“Then tell me. What am I wrong about? That you’re misusing Felix’s name? That you’re using a machine to replace him?”

Sylvain flinches with each pointed question. It’s a double-edged sword that Ingrid knows him so well. Her words carve almost as sharply as Felix’s used to.

“Either. I don’t know! Both.” Sylvain exhales heavily. “Maybe you don’t like what I’m doing, but it’s helping. I get to hear Felix’s voice, and it makes it a little easier to live without him.”

“Does it?”

“You don’t have to like it, but it’s my life.”

Ingrid pauses. She opens her mouth a few times, deliberating and changing tact. She settles on: “I’m worried about you.”

“I get that. But I don’t need you to.”

“I can’t trust that.”

“You have to.”

Ingrid finally relents. “If that’s really what you need to believe.”

“It is. I promise, I’m getting better.”

“I hope so.”

“That’s my girl.” Sylvain pats her on the knee. Ingrid snorts lightly, but doesn’t shove him away. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be here when you change your mind.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” Sylvain stands, offering her a hand. “Want something to eat?”

Ingrid’s stomach grumbles its immediate assent. She casts a long, calculating look at Fe, still asleep in its corner, before taking it and sighing. “You win for now. Only because I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and I’m starving.”

“Ingrid? Skipping lunch? Are you sure you’re the same girl I grew up with?”

“Like I said, work has been a menace.”

“Well, then it’s on me to make sure you’re fed.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Thank you, oh great Sylvain, for your generosity. Now get me my food.”

Sylvain slings an arm across her shoulders. “Your wish is my command.”

He doesn’t miss her backwards glance as he steers her toward the kitchen.

—

Ingrid makes a point to visit at least once a week after that. Ostensibly, it’s to check in with Sylvain—to see what he’s up to, to make sure he hasn’t fallen into another drunken, self-pitying stupor—but Sylvain knows better. Without fail, her eyes wander to the corner where Fe sits as he welcomes her in, and a frown flickers across her expression. 

Irritation flashes hot through Sylvain. He doesn’t need a babysitter. He turns her away, asking again about Dorothea’s latest show and whether Ingrid’s decided to put a name on their relationship yet. She accepts the distraction gracefully for the most part. 

They don’t talk about it.

—

The tentative peace lasts only about a month.

“Keeping me away from your Viskam doesn’t help your case, you know,” Ingrid says, off-hand and casual, as she munches her way through a handful of popcorn. 

She glances at Fe’s corner where the AI sits, unthreatening and unremarkable, its LEDs dark. From the television, polite applause sounds, signaling the end of the dressage competition Ingrid came over to watch.

“Fe,” Sylvain corrects automatically, and winces. So much for convincing Ingrid that he’s fine.

Ingrid crosses her arms and turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re really going to dig this grave and lie in it, huh.”

“That’s hi—its name.”

Ingrid’s eyebrows shoot up and her posture goes slack. Sylvain’s not sure if she’s more shocked at his slip of the tongue or if he is. He knowsFe is nothing more than a Viskam; he hears it every time it speaks in that flat, oh-so-slightly-wrong tone, and yet, and _yet_ —

Fuck.

“Really, Sylvain?”

Sylvain squares his shoulders and averts his gaze, staring stonily at the television. A commercial for womens’ health supplements blinks back at him. “Let it go, Ingrid. I know Fe is—I know it’s just a machine, I swear. I’m fine without your nagging.”

She places her almost empty bowl of popcorn on the ground with a measured thud.

“Are you? Because I’ve been waiting for you to pull yourself together for almost half a year now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you haven’t. You’re still avoiding everyone.” Every word sounds measured and planned, careful as though Ingrid has been planning this confrontation for weeks. She probably has. “It’s hard, but you have to let go. Anything that reminds you of him now that you can’t see him—they hurt. Those things will _always_ hurt, and the hurt won’t stop as long as you keep letting yourself live in the past. You’ll get stuck in your head, doing the same things over and over, trying to cling to something that’s gone.” 

Sylvain chances a glance at her. They’re not talking about Felix’s death anymore. Ingrid sighs and shakes her head. 

“You saw how everything changed when Glenn died,” she says, low and tired. “You know how much it—it broke me. Broke all of us, really. It took me years and years, and a lot of pushing from Dorothea and Mercedes, before I went to therapy and really learned to come to terms with his death.” 

Sylvain lets her words hang, the echo of her pain palpable, before reaching over to squeeze her hand.

“Yeah,” he says, as warm as he can make it. He’s not enough of an asshole to rub in Glenn’s death, no matter how the wound has finally scarred and healed. “Yeah, I remember. It was a really big step when you finally did it.”

“So—what I’m saying is, I don’t want you to get caught in your grief like I did.”

“I won’t.” Sylvain grimaces and pulls back. He looks away and his eyes land on Fe. The sight emboldens him, sends a bolt of defiance through him. “I’m not.”

“Sylvain. Don’t lie to me. We both know that’s not true.”

“I’m doing better.” He doesn’t manage to keep the bite out of his voice. “You’ve seen me. I’m not behind on Bernadetta’s new book anymore, and I’ve even taken on a new client in the last month.”

“I—okay, I can’t disagree with that. Maybe things are getting better there for you. If they are, I’m happy for you. But you can’t tell me you think it’s healthy that you’re—” she exhales, rough. “You’re trying to replace Felix.”

Sylvain recoils. “I’m not—” he says through gritted teeth, “I would _never_ —”

“Stop lying.” She grabs him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn toward her. He keeps his gaze averted anyway. “Just—stop. For both of our sakes.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m nothing without Felix? That I needed him to be whole?” Sylvain laughs, harsh. “I’m pretty sure you already know that. I definitely do.”

“That’s not what I’m—” She takes a steadying breath. “Look. Listen to me. Look at me.” 

Sylvain turns to her, slow and reluctant. For all the frustration running through her voice, her expression is soft and vulnerable, torn with worry. Sylvain deflates, stunned by guilt. He did this to her. He made Ingrid, the only remaining person who has never wavered in her faith in him, bear the weight of caring for him. It’s still hard to unearth too much guilt that he’d rather live in a dreamscape where Felix isn’t gone.

Ingrid takes him by the shoulders. Her gaze searches his.

“You have to stop doing this. Turn off the Viskam, get rid of it, go to grief counseling. Something. Anything.” 

It’s not the first time Sylvain has been told he’s too fucked up and needs therapy, and it won’t be the last. His argument is the same as it always is: he’ll trust someone trying to psychoanalyze him as far as he can throw them. He knows his own thoughts well enough, he doesn’t need someone else confirming the worst of them. 

“I don’t—”

“Seriously, just get rid of the nickname. You can’t avoid reality. Felix is dead, Sylvain. He’s gone.”

Sylvain scoffs. “You think I don’t know that? That I’m not thinking about it every day, how Felix should be here, how he was always the one who deserved to live?” 

“Nobody is say—!”

“Nobody has to.” Sylvain wrenches himself away, and suddenly, he’s pacing, fury and frustration flooding through him. “But that’s the reality we all get—I’m here, he’s gone, and the only thing left I have to let me hear his voice is a stupid fucking machine!”

He’s only vaguely aware of Ingrid getting to her own feet behind him. There’s a firm hand on his arm, and he’s forced to halt.

“Doing this, living like this—you’re not making it any better for yourself,” Ingrid says, heavy and resigned.

“It’s my life, Ingrid, not yours.”

“It is, and I’ve had to bail you out more times than I can count, so I know how much your life affects mine,” Ingrid says, dry. 

Sylvain winces. She’s not wrong there. 

Ingrid sighs. “I’m not saying you have to change everything, and I believe you when you say that having the Viskam around makes things easier. For what it’s worth, I believed you about that from the start, but you had to know that it’s not helping you heal. It’s hard, but he’s not coming back, and you have to start letting go.”

“I’m managing fine.” And Sylvain is, for the most part. His life is slowly coming back together. So what if he occasionally pretends that Fe’s voice is more than a pale imitation?

“I don’t want it to take you years and years of living in his death to move on like it took me.” Ingrid walks around Sylvain to look him in the eyes. “Just do something small. Get rid of the nickname. Turn it off every now and then. Do it for yourself—but also for me.”

“I swear, I’m fine.”

“Try it. Promise me. If not for yourself, for me.”

Sylvain glances at Fe where it sits behind Ingrid. The AI is still unlit, but it feels like a betrayal to swear anything with it in earshot. But that’s Ingrid’s point, isn’t it? This guilt, this allegiance—they’re flawed, and Sylvain’s conflating the ties he has to the AI with the ones he once had with Felix. 

It’s just a machine. Fe will only ever be wiring and code.

Sylvain bites the inside of his cheek and exhales.

“Okay, okay. I’ll try it.”

Ingrid smiles at him, weak and a little watery. “Good. I was starting to get worried I’d never get through to you. I decided to wait because you asked me to, but that wasn’t going to work forever.”

Sylvain cracks a grin back. It’s strained and a little fragile, but not dishonest. “You’re always my voice of reason.”

“Damn straight.”

Ingrid lets him wrap her in a hug, and she pats his back in the way she always has, consoling and too firm. Over her shoulder, Sylvain watches Fe’s dark surface, and he shoves down the fear and bile rising in his throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! [Find me on twitter.](https://twitter.com/euphemeas)


End file.
